Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Nutritional Value Of Homemade Pizza

Poets in the streets of Paris (2)

And the cops fired a bitter attack on the black flag ...

The rotten I am telling you watch these
Tronches these reds these facies
Spaniards Italians Croats Bulgarians
The gooks
Some niggers shit
There are even some who wear hats
and tie like the bourgeois

The rotten I am telling you
dogs hungry for blood Savages
brutes who kill father and mother that
is seen in their wild eyes
their fists to their mouths twisted by hatred of honest people

In the street the child hungry
contemplate the dregs of the earth
He said nothing He stubbornly silent
He grits his teeth and he was taught
since the first day

The street whores
pasted on the walls and throw roses
kisses to the insurgents
Ravens obscure distress and derision
religiously deposit their droppings on the statues
Heroes of the Republic

Renée-Maria Little Match
cries and blows his nose in his fingers
lorgnées the corner of his eye by a Mr.
smelling cologne

Renee Maria bite her hand till the blood
not to scream

In the street the sound of hunting humiliated far
; before it leaves
Ah! god! it is beautiful!
whispers Renee Maria watching the lead in that

a handsome young man dressed as a carpenter A beard
blonde and carefully combed
fingers thin and very pale

Should all align along a wall that's me
; telling you
a priest whispers in the ear of Master Corporal
Should all thrown into the fiery furnace
said the consumptive seamstress awaiting Prince Charming
Should all taken to the gates of the Champs-Elysees
triumphantly proclaims a former Versailles
converted in the slave trade

In the streets of babies wailing foreseeing the tragedy
Lanterns off
A bearing ascending from the Pont Louis-Philippe
Another replied rolling across the Pantheon
We hear feet pounding the pavement around the gardens
; Luxembourg's

In the street they walk like silences serious armed
; countless courage
They walk like crowds arisen from a dark hole where rats
; They compete for space
walk like oceans united by the blood sweat
; and tears
They walk like swords
As processions of famines and pain, oldest
than older trees
In the streets they walk like despair dressed in rough cloth
as mutilated bodies
as voice broken by emotion

In the street the child looks dumb hungry

curled up on its squalor
He trembles
He's afraid he

But his eyes are those of a son of man has long been an orphan

The street still looks timid
means forging hoarse breasts
In the suburbs the sun shredded
collapses in the midst of gardens distressing

Whoever comes forward head has no love
It has never had time
and whoever follows him has only friend

wind nights
of homeland

He who walks in mind is as beautiful as
an archangel and one that
follows a gentle face of a king-mage

Should every swing to the lions
babies wave their little arms sensing
A banker drama
fat and bald so check his portfolio
; is always where it should

they walk in the street without saying a word without fever

They walk at a steady
convinced they are of all races and all

On the street where the whores quick remake

their makeup to be beautiful
On the street where the child hungry
cradles a rag doll
which has only one leg

They walk behind the drums banners lifted high
they walk obscure silent
helmeted figures they walk kicks iron helmets
They march in ranks
They They walk hundreds and thousands walk the walk as always

many minutes they watched each
In Long minutes
And the cops fired lashing out at the black flag ...
The advancing front erupted in mind reddens sidewalk
And he followed that fell with slow shattering
And the child was suddenly hungry tons

white bread in the hollow of your palms.
Late at night when they were on
remained only whores
who sang hymns and psalms divine.

André Laude
In "The Paris Imagination" by Jean Lebedeff
(Ed TV, 1979)

Andre Laude This poem is exceptional for several reasons: firstly because he joined the incurable delusion of Rimbaud after the Commune had been crushed, and the other May 68 and it evokes the desperate years of sporadic fighting that continued to be offered for nearly a decade. The Communists' sectarisés "- Maoists, Stalinists, Lambert and other militarized factions trostkystes ... - The slave trade unions tomorrow and forever disenchanted, a little later, the hypocritical party mitterrand (Which had a name of socialist electoral controlled at the expense of a people in the process of surrender) broke all the dreams of the revolutionary utopia. For this poet who lived in his furious flesh breakup of major insurgent movements inaugurated by the French Revolution, " poetry and revolution were one and the same thing ", he understood that poetry "as accompaniment the social and human development towards justice and more freedom possible ". André Laude, who had never inserts, had predicted early on destructive policies and segregation that we suffer today. For him, the Socialist Party of Fabius, Jospin, Lang, Strauss Kahn, Delors and others ... was no doubt that a relay of capitalism triumphant. Anarchist Marxist and stood there, (He explained in this very precisely in the early nineties came ten in the magazine NOT PLAY Jean-Michel Fossey), he lived poetry as a necessary conflict with a reality ; completely deranged and terrifying. He wanted to end the "little man" cowardly and cruel to invent another language " is not that people condemned to think only to survival, to bear the terrible hours of work in factories, when the savage capitalism develops .. . "Son of a proletarian, he said that poetry was written" with the world to show solidarity . "In 1982, he declared:" Poetry might have a chance in the context of a large historical and social upheaval "but he did not want to add with a touch of icy lucidity which characterizes all who have crossed the abyss of human hope," that under the current, I not think that poetry has a chance. She will always remain I'm afraid, the ghetto in which are found those who are different, those who do not work like the others, and then also ... it will remain that little extra something that presents itself in some quarters a little money or we love poets while fucking completely the message of the poem . AC

Biography and publications of André Laude :


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